Robert Drake, CPA
by modestlobster
Summary: Hey folks, just a friendly reminder to file your 2012 taxes! AU. A world without superheroes or mutants - or is it? Bobby Drake is just your average guy who happens to be a Certified Public Accountant... who happens to develop a crush on one of his clients. But who is she really?


I knew I only had a couple minutes at most.

From the point whence I clicked that final button to e-File her 2012 tax return, I had but a precious few moments of awkward silence during which the data would be submitted to the IRS server queue, then processed and assessed for errors against the programming rules in the government's system, until which time the information was then transmitted back to my office PC, where it would generate a receipt report and subsequently file the copy into our system and send confirmation to the printer/scanner sitting in the corner of my cubicle beside a somewhat-neglected houseplant.

So, as I hit the 'Submit' button, I tried my very best to play it cool while my heart tried _its_ very best to thump its way out of my chest in a panic – and the words that had sounded so suave in my head tripped over one another as they leapt out from the relative safety of my mouth.

"So, uh, you know – for next year's taxes…" I cleared my throat in what I hoped was a business-like-and-not-at-all-nervous way. "…Or, well – really, if you need _any_ financial advice at _any_ point during the year…"

She stared at me with that glassy-eyed blankness of post-annual-financial-reconciliation that I had come to know so well in this job.

"I can, uh, well… make house calls…" I continued.

She blinked slowly, one of her eyebrows rising up in an unasked question.

"You know, for a much lower fee… Uh…" Just be cool. Just be cool. Just be–

"I see." She reflexively tucked her brunette hair behind her ear while she appeared to be working on some kind of complex calculation in her head.

"You mean, in exchange for sex." She concluded aloud.

It wasn't a question.

"W-what?" I sputtered.

"Ah, hell…" She sighed to herself.

"N-no – not what I meant–"

(Well, okay, maybe it _was_ what I meant…)

(But, you know, _down the line._ Not, like, the first time I came over or anything.)

She shrugged. "…I'll consider it."

Uh…_ Error: Does not compute._

The printer/scanner suddenly juddered into life. But as I was still frozen in my seat, my mouth agape, _she_ was the one to stand up and retrieve the print-outs that would confirm her e-File a success for the 2012 financial year.

She collected her things, slung the strap of her black messenger bag over her shoulder, and stopped at the 'doorway' of my cubicle.

"Well, thanks, Robert." She waved the papers at me. "See you – hmm… later sometime."

As her modest heels clicked down the corridor, my brain finally seemed to thaw out and catch up to her considerable proposition.

"…Y-you will?" My response came out as a strangled whisper.

_Maybe she __**is**__ a stripper_, was the first thought to process through my newly-melted brain.

Okay, okay, I know that's maybe a little bit sexist – but why else would she have so much non-employee compensation to report on her 1099-MISC income form every year?

And on top of it all, she calls herself Kitty.

_Kitty._

Come on. Like that's _not _a stripper name.

But, hey, I'll be honest. Of all the scenarios I've fantasized about over the past 3 years that she's been coming to the firm to do her taxes, the one where Katherine Anne 'Kitty' Pryde is a stripper was never really at the top of my list. Well, not my realistic list anyway. Just my what-else-would-_you_-do- as-a-Certified-Public-Accountant- but-imagine-your-clients-as-sexual-goddesses- who-are-fated-to-fall-desperately-in-love-with-you list.

But maybe I'm getting ahead of myself.

After all, she's just another client. I've only seen her 3 times in as many years. Maybe had a couple phone conversations and brief email exchanges on top of that. And she's just one of the many who get sent the company's annual Christmas card every year… though she's one of the few that I actually write a personal message to. Every year.

Nothing creepy. Just cordial, polite enough, with a dumb Christmas joke – or two or three – to prove I might have some semblance of personality, for an accountant anyway.

Though, this past Christmas was the first time I had signed it 'Bobby', rather than 'Robert'.

And this was also the first year that she had sent a note back:

_'You know I'm Jewish, right?'_

Well, I did now.

And what else might I discover about the mystery that is Kitty Pryde, _the Jewish maybe-or-maybe-not-a stripper…_?

Only time would tell, I guess. But back to reality. There'd be another client with another year's worth of financial documents in my 'office' at any moment.

I treated my cubicle houseplant to the remaining liquid in the complimentary plastic cup of water that Kitty had brought in with her from the building's reception area. I tried my very best not to notice the particular shade of lipstick or the pattern that her lips left on the rim of the cup as I tossed it in the trash.

Because Bobby Drake is not a creeper. He's just your normal, everyday guy… who hasn't gotten any in a while.

Such is life.

I'm really not sure if today went better or worse than I expected.

But all I can do now is wait and see if Miss Kitty Pryde puts her money where her mouth is.


End file.
